


the devil's mailbox

by devilcakess



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe, Angst, Cannibalism, Child Abigail Hobbs, Dark, Dark Will Graham, Epistolary, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Introspection, Letters, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal Lecter, Manipulative Will Graham, Minor Character Death, Murder, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Post-War, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilcakess/pseuds/devilcakess
Summary: In the end, Hannibal cannot say for sure what propelled him into this decision: whether it’s instinct, a speculative gaze, or merely an itch he’s suddenly too stagnant to resist—and as it stands, the source would be of no consequence. Altruism, as repentance, has never served him well.He’ll rent a room for a couple of days, access whatever wild yet extraordinary flower has been growing at the island tides, and return to his manor in London.Whether the bloom will be worth the journey or not, only time will tell.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	the devil's mailbox

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I’ll just write something super short and super sweet for it!  
> Also me: [writes like 30k of that sweet sweet murder]
> 
> “The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society” (OOF) is an epistolary novel written by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows; however, seeing as I’m using Netflix’s movie adaptation as my overall guide for this, the letters (although relatively recurrent at first) will only be a part of the story rather than the method of narrative.
> 
> Please note that I’m obviously not a history expert, and although I’ve both done some research and gleaned over most of the overtly specific details about the (by then) recently-dissolved German occupation on Guernsey Island, this is likely to have some plot holes concerning the timeline, as well as other perfectly logical grounds I’m too scatterbrained to present in clearer terms. Either way, I do hope you enjoy the story! 
> 
> FYI: Work un-beta’d, English is not my first language, yadda yadda yadda—
> 
> (Also if you’re reading this I love you. That’s me breaking into your house to steal all your coffee, but with love.)

Hannibal closes the book’s back cover heavily over its last page, and although the arguably brilliant resolution instantly grants him an undeniably sound round of applause, the sentiment that comes firmly tied to it is nothing short of absolutely lackluster. Certainly, it’s of his cavalier nature to find people unwittingly praising his work, smiling and nodding away as if in absolute understanding rather than mere enrapture. But _this_ —this, he knows, the crowd cannot fathom. During his youth, some would often appoint him as a master of obfuscation, which indeed proved to be true. Smoke and mirrors, a compendium of carefully-crafted words, and the crowd adore him as they do a god.

It’s for this precise reason he does it, in the end: curiosity over caution, and how very obvious can one make the perversion until stumbled upon by the crowd?

He bows his head, coy. Flashing one of his briefest Mona Lisa smiles, Hannibal offers his thanks to the vast audience that usher him on for a speech with bated breath, taking the calculated move to pass on the opportunity of repeating himself when it comes to the autolatry the public expects. The shadow over his eyes is only partially manufactured.

In the expansive room, showered by elegant candlelight and a delectable aroma of rich wine, a shadow that is as easily recognizable as Hannibal’s own reflection looms in the corner; more to Crawford’s comfort than his very own, he would imagine. The doctor brings all attendees’ attention to the metaphorical elephant in the room, both to break the man’s ludicrous fantasy of discretion and to concoct a situation in which gratitude won’t be an obligation in private. Hannibal raises his glass, proposing a toast to the man whose aide had been ‘imperative for his groundbreaking, though imminent success’.

As an agent looking for Hannibal’s best interests whilst promoting the author’s latest book, Jack isn’t exactly appeased; as a friend hovering over his shoulder and perfectly able to detect his deliberate dissatisfaction, he is merely concerned. His success at balancing the two has been mediocre at best.

“You ought to take a break,” he insists, the very second Hannibal is left to his own devices as he fetches another drink for himself at the center table, “after you’ve fulfilled our new arrangement.”

Despite Hannibal’s spotless efforts on keeping their association from becoming one of imbalance, between his very own facade of the harmless, debonair patrician and the man’s sanctimonious nature, Crawford is still just about the only person who’s daring enough to make any emphatic demands without resorting to frivolous pleasantries. This perhaps proves reason enough as to why he’s been appointed as the doctor’s editor in the first place, and why he remains unharmed despite all backhanded actions.

The man has barely told Hannibal about the new contract as it is—a small deal with a Londoner paper for weekly, bite-sized essays on the importance of literature. _How quaint_ , but really, just a poor excuse of undermining his continuous prestige, as it were, when taking his title as Count of a state of interest into consideration. Naturally, someone has to keep him in check. 

At the moment, the spotlight is undesirable for most; Hannibal, however, remains unperturbed.

“That’s very kind of you, Jack.”

He does lose some of that composure all the same when a letter arrives at his doorstep at a seemingly unexceptional Tuesday, offering what might as well be the impact that brings about the ripples across the surface of his mental lake. The disturbance is curious as it is inelegant, and Hannibal only allows it as an excuse to delay his correspondence with Crawford; the man’s unwarranted belligerency should be repaid in equal measure, from time to time.

The message is written in plain stationery paper, the slightly crumpled edges making him purse his lips in some distaste, although Hannibal does appreciate the lack of any liquor stains or smudges of ink that often accompanies the coarse ways of informality. The contents of the letter are peculiar, and the doctor finds himself most intrigued by the man behind such penmanship—one he could only call _straightforward_. 

> **Postmarked:**  
>  November 19, 1945  
> St. Peter Port, Guernsey
> 
> _Mr. Lecter,_
> 
> _Months back, I came across a book that was gifted to you a long time ago. And seeing as there’s little to no particularly viable chance of acquiring a particular necessity of ours from any other source, the address attached to your name now shows itself as a fortunate coincidence. Your help would be welcomed by the literary society long established in the area—by a few acquaintances as well as myself—in light of the scarcity of pieces of literature, essays, or anthologies of any kind._
> 
> _I understand this is sudden, and there’s a substantial chance you won’t get to read this; what are the odds that you keep the same address as before, even after all that’s happened? But some insisted that I try, at the very least; especially our youngest member, who’s to turn mere five years of age in this subsequent spring._
> 
> _The aforementioned book is_ The Picture of Dorian Gray, _and I wonder if you’d mind terribly to further introduce us to the author and his work, or any analogous pieces that have been published. And even though I imagine you must be a very busy man, and entirely preoccupied with matters more pressing than a stranger seeking information on books, do think of this as a favor to the remaining of the Society—who are, as it turns out, all very eager to hear back from you._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _Will Graham_

Naturally, Hannibal recalls his particular copy of Oscar Wilde’s work almost instantaneously. It had been a gift from Mischa, long before Germany had begun marching to their conquest of his home country; when things were simpler, more tender, without the complications of mundane life.

Much had been lost, or taken, or temporarily apprehended by the soldiers, and although the mere memory of the book is a gift in itself, the doctor would be delighted to have it back. How long has it been since he’s seen his sister’s handwriting, always so elegant and bright, even at such a young age? Her eloquent and most sincere words upon constructing the rather personal dedication? Such a token is likely to be the last remnant of Mischa’s presence in this world, and though not exactly emotional, the notion does make Hannibal more interested in seeing where this exchange shall take him.

A series of things go through his mind as her blonde locks and sharp wit begin to subside, not allowing the bitterness of her destiny take over, but simply drifting away into a shadow of a thought. To more pressing matters, so to speak.

Who could be this character that writes him now, and from Guernsey, of all places? Surely not a form of ploy; Hannibal knows of the island citizens’ current predicament, and although it had been much worse during the war, it can’t already present itself pleasant enough a situation as to court the idea of leisure in the shape of a book club of sorts—or perhaps that’s the precise reasoning behind it. A distraction from the horrors, as it were, further embellished by a literary piece as wicked as they come. The idea is almost delectable to consider, and briefly, he wonders what else is there to Will Graham.

Certainly not as narrow as back in the 1890s, and yet the current sense of decorum is not much better. The stranger’s choice for their reading sessions is not only bold but also surprisingly tasteful. Alas, the assumptions Mr. Graham has made about the doctor’s character would’ve been vulgar, if not so comical; in the face of it all, it becomes inconsequential. Hannibal can feel his lips pulling at the edges despite himself, captivated by the oddity of their situation.

The essay he’s due for delivery next week is promptly forgotten, as is the pig in the basement gracefully awaiting for his artistic contemplation. A litany of questions color even the farthest corners of his mind, and as Mary goes off to put on a pot of tea, the doctor makes himself comfortable in the company of his typewriter; though merely for accessing the correct frame of mind, seeing as he has no intention to use it. The stranger in the English Channel has granted Hannibal a glimpse of his penmanship, rough around the edges as it might have been, thus he must commit to the very same.

An agreeable distraction. And so kindly bestowed, too.

(In the interest of courtliness, Hannibal does his very best to keep it simple. Needless to say, it proves to be a near herculean task.)

> November 26, 1945  
> London, England
> 
> _Dear Mr. Graham,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you in good health._
> 
> _Yes, I do recall such a copy of Mr. Wilde’s piece—and would be happy to reunite with it, although perhaps some other time. What I find myself most taken by at the moment, however, is the literary society that should benefit from our correspondence. The continent has been put in a delicate position, you understand, although the world in its entirety was also left to shoulder the impossible weight of such quandary. And yet you were quite impervious in your previous message addressed to me._
> 
> _With the risk of sounding terribly self-absorbed, perchance you’ll take the book sent alongside this letter as my goodwill, and feel yourself so inclined to repay the gesture by mollifying the flames of curiosity that have been fanned by such events that took place so close, yet so far away. In clearer terms: if I tell you of your infamous author, Mr. Graham, will you tell me of the Society, as well as your apparent interest in the decadent ways of the human mind?_
> 
> _My schedule should prove of no concern, as I have recently reached a point in my work that allows for a modicum of comfort, and time, well enough to pay you and your associates the care and attention you’re due. Please, do feel free to respond as soon as it is convenient, and I’ll be delighted to be of service._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Dr. Hannibal Lecter_

The library in his home is vast. 

Many books can be spotted more than once: gifts from admirers, publishers, dinner guests. It’s always been the easiest way to please Hannibal, after all. The safest path into his good graces, except perhaps for good wine, and silent, vaguely unconventional offerings of meat and entertainment. 

As it is, the doctor procures a copy of _Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories,_ and alongside the letter, asks young Tim to deliver it immediately to the post office. 

(He aches to send some other book. Something that would sink its teeth harder into the arguably imperfect stranger as to gauge a suitable reaction, as well as to determine his true character. But perhaps the discovery of Mr. Graham’s disposition shall be reserved for another day, as it is imperative that his attention is indeed captured, first and foremost.)

Spare no expense, Hannibal says, for it must arrive at its destination at once.

On the other hand, waiting for a response is harder than initially anticipated.

Not unlike Mr. Graham’s own inquietude, he would imagine, considering there was no way of knowing for certain he would ever hear back in the first place. However, Hannibal’s agitation is not only peculiar but also entirely unwarranted, and although the unexpected message had been enough to pique his interest, the exchange is shelved in the midst of the doctor’s obligations with Crawford, as well as the less formal yet largely enlightening encounters with his psychiatrist.

The manuscript for his first essay at the paper is written without any complication, checking all the entirely aggravating boxes established by his publisher a few days prior. Jack hasn’t read it yet, but Hannibal is certain he’ll be pleased by it: something terribly pedestrian, and perhaps not as ostentatious for once. He isn’t exactly keen on continuing the arrangement, but the agreement had been set upon an entire month worth of his contributions, and he refuses to call off the deal merely due to an offbeat indisposition.

Not a week later, when the second letter arrives, he happens to be in Bedelia’s company. Overall, it’s an undesirable position to be in; she’d been unaware of the circumstance until now and seems disdainful at the heels of Hannibal’s caprice. Or perhaps intolerant over not possessing his undivided attention at the moment, which has been the constant, alleged reason for her unwavering absence at his dinner parties.

In all of Bedelia’s dignity, such incongruence is almost amusing to witness.

The pig had been served medium rare at his last gathering, the flavors elevated by the seasoning to denote the rich and herbal undertones of venison, unbeknownst to Hannibal’s guests. Naturally, his table had felt the vacancy of Bedelia’s seat then, much to his dismay; although later on, he’d delighted himself with preparing mussels strictly to her remarkable palate nonetheless. Dinner had been an uneventful affair.

“From Guernsey, you say.”

“Just so.”

She’s sipping delicately at her wine, long limbs arranged elegantly against the seat by the harpsichord. The chiaroscuro bestowed by the firelight makes her complexion look vaguely infernal, although still compelling in its sharpened beauty. Bedelia has always been a fascinating woman, and a physician of a brilliant mind, but more than ever the doctor has less interest in her than it is polite. Hannibal can feel the winds of something grand, and likely delightfully destructive, whispering soundly against the window panes of his mind palace—much like the last time he’s received news from Mr. Graham, and so soon he discovers its source. Curious, very curious indeed.

A dazzling staccato of opportunity.

He’s expressionless as he sets the letter aside, betraying absolutely nothing. To read its contents in her presence would invite a brand of fragility he does not court in the proximity of others, much less one who could exploit it to their own design.

Dessert is served shortly after the commotion in the form of brown sugar pavlova and _tahini_ -caramel peaches, and she commends his artistry rather curtly before sustaining another hour of lukewarm conversation. Hannibal might’ve presented as a tolerable host at best, and on a whim files his memory for a formal apology to be delivered to Bedelia’s office first thing in the morning, the very moment she officially leaves his company: he cannot have her blowing this particular occurrence out of proportion. 

Not yet, anyway.

Once the plates are cleared off the table and his home resumes its customary order, he returns to the sitting room to read Will Graham’s message by the fire. It seems only fitting.

> **Postmarked:**  
>  December 02, 1945  
> St. Peter Port, Guernsey
> 
> _Dr. Lecter,_
> 
> _Do forgive the liberties I took in my previous letter. In the interest of honesty, I had no expectations to hear back from you, and most of what was written came to be as an attempt to appease some of the individuals hovering over my shoulders. The coast has been filled with soldiers still; they’re leaving, slowly but surely, though it still gives us little room to search for anything more...educational, or even instructive in any way._
> 
> _Sending us a book was unnecessary, but the others greatly appreciate the gesture. The author has been a frequent topic among our keenest readers, despite the contents not being as appropriate to Abigail as we would like. Regardless, after being given such a gift, I have notified the Society of your wish to know them better, and it was with some reluctance that we were able to come to an agreement as to what to tell you about ourselves._
> 
> _We are, in total, seven individuals; our ages vary, though I can confirm Mr. Price to be the eldest, and Abigail the youngest, as I have informed you previously. The women outnumber the men by one, and although we’re all from humble origins, curiously, we’re a couple of the few with a bit of academic background—it may come as a shock, or perhaps not, but people in Guernsey are hardly literate. The creation of the Society was sort of an accident, but since we’ve been improving each other’s readership as a result, no-one can bring themselves to part with it._
> 
> _It also forces us to be sociable, which some of us aren’t very fond of._
> 
> _As for your second request: Oscar Wilde was my idea. Ms. Verger was keen on bringing a wider range of genres to our reading sessions, and I’d found your copy of_ The Picture of Dorian Gray _in what was left of the local library a few weeks back, so it was well-timed, I suppose. The fire wasn’t kind to the island’s already limited collection, but the debris left your book intact. Almost as if it was calling us to it, like a string that would pull us to its body among the ashes._
> 
> _But, well._
> 
> _Your letter was also an object of open curiosity amongst the members of the Society, and I would like to request your permission to read them aloud during our meetings, as we do to books we come across, even as they change hands multiple times; you have my word it won’t be a subject of scrutiny, seeing as the people here practice a harmless brand of interest. Either way, I thank your attentiveness to us, despite what common sense would usually dictate._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _Will Graham_
> 
> _P.S.: Abigail has insisted that I send you the drawing she’s made after knowing of our correspondence. I hope her depiction of your country, as well as yourself, will not be cause for offense._

Hannibal blinks. Shuffling the stationery papers filled out in Mr. Graham’s reasonably neater handwriting and more polished sentences, he finds the last page: only a half-sheet, folded into a miniature of its original size. The drawing is made with gouache, and although the mixture of scarce colors makes for a largely unintelligible image, the doctor is able to make out the figure of a remarkably short stick-figure, with a round stomach, and a top hat. The man’s hair is gray, further denouncing their view of him as someone much older and of likely rather different habits, as he’d initially suspected. 

At a distance, there’s also Abigail’s impression of the Big Ben—a huddle of thin, black lines going in haphazardly to add detail to the piece, with what Hannibal hazards to be charcoal, and he does not know whether to feel delighted over her craftiness or dismay over the mess it will undoubtedly make around his office.

He glances briefly at the fireplace.

“Not very straightforward,” Hannibal comments, cooly, to no-one in particular, “are you, Mr. Graham?”

A beat passes him by. The doctor folds back the drawing. It will remain so until he finds a suitable place to store it; and he has the outlandish urge to do it, too, even though Abigail is obviously much too little to provide an art piece fitting of Hannibal’s manor. But her heart’s in the right place. So. He shall allow it.

Hannibal refills his wine glass, a warmth that is both appalling and welcoming spreading across his chest like a physical touch. And although he doesn’t bother analyzing the emotion further, he does acknowledge it somewhere in his mind; there’ll be plenty of time to think about that later, he reckons, as he cooks, or perhaps during his next therapy session with Franklyn Froideveaux. Hannibal is always keen on occupying his thoughts during those particular hours of his day, after all—to endorse his mind to be taken elsewhere, farther than sometimes is physically possible.

But this moment is his, and his alone, it seems.

Mr. Graham’s reservations, although wholly misplaced in this particular case, are not unfounded. He’s being cautious, as is highly advised during such trying times; Hannibal himself hadn’t left Lithuania over a ruse either, although he was perfectly capable of finding comfort elsewhere. Perhaps this is the man’s attempt at self-preservation: keeping the details to himself in the case the doctor happens to court some malicious plot that could easily cost him, and all his associates, everything that’s left. Perhaps the ‘accident’ whereby such literary society came to be in fact holds the larger and arguably most perilous portion of his apprehension; therein lies Hannibal’s door into the stranger’s world.

(The plume of smoke dies down. The fog subsides. He can hear the waves crashing against the rocks of a lagoon, on an island he’s never been. The taste of salt in the air. And the way Will Graham described the book’s siren aria, sitting beatifically over the ashes of its siblings, seems suddenly startlingly more sensible.)

How very entertaining.

> December 06, 1945  
> London, England
> 
> _Dear Mr. Graham,_
> 
> _Please do not concern yourself over the informality of your first message, as I am in no shape or form offended by it. If anything, your spontaneity is quite a source of charm, I’m afraid, and I find myself intrigued by your character even further. I’ll take our correspondence with a touch of congeniality, if I may; and do feel free to use these letters as sustenance to your Society’s eager eyes, so as long as you provide me with their reactions to them._
> 
> _Now, I realize that I failed to invite you to be forthcoming, Mr. Graham, since I have barely spoken of what it is that I do, myself. As you may already be aware, I’m a certified physician, although barely in practice any longer—most of my time is reserved for writing, and occasionally maintaining other recreational interests. Perhaps that will explain my curiosity over your gatherings; I had no intention to be impertinent._
> 
> _You also mentioned previously that the odds of me keeping the same location as years back was not so great, and in fact, I have traveled much ever since. But my home country currently finds itself in a position stranded as your own, and I see myself unwilling to drift too far away at the present moment._
> 
> _Literacy grants power, as does literature itself. It’s rather inspiring, and dare I say empowering, to be part of such a small number in the great scheme of things, is it not? Certainly. And mesmerizing to see from an outsider’s perspective._
> 
> _To teach young Abigail, as well, regardless of the circumstances—it’s of no surprise you’ve selected Oscar Wilde’s work as a new addition to your bedside table, for even if close to being the last resort, many would’ve rather run out of options if I do say so myself. I’m convinced your mind is a rather marvelous thing, whether it is done consciously or not. Maybe the book truly was calling for you, eager to be in your possession and be consumed by your sharp intellect._
> 
> _Your comrades seem very supportive of you. Do tell me more about them, Mr. Graham, if you wouldn’t mind it so._
> 
> _As it is, I was rather taken by Abigail’s portrayal of myself, as well as London’s national symbol. She surely has a knack for it, and I imagine she’ll eventually hone her skills into something very dignified. Do pass my thanks on to her, and if destiny allows, one day I shall return the favor._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Dr. Hannibal Lecter_

There’s a great risk in continuously enticing curiosity in such a way, and yet the doctor just can’t seem to help himself in regards to this new character. 

Multiple weeks have gone by since the very first message has arrived, and although Hannibal’s schedule doesn’t allow for frequent musings, a brand-new room has been built in his mind palace exclusively for this: a grand threshold at one of his tropological hallways, embodied by a resplendent frame with golden ornaments, like those of paintings. Here, Hannibal pictures Will Graham like a beautiful tragedy: marooned and mysterious.

This time, he sends, too, an anthology he’s able to procure at the local bookshop; written by a self-appointed authority on Oscar Wilde, and taken as sufficiently legitimate by the staff. At this inquiry, Mary goes as far as calling him a _romantic,_ and although Hannibal has certainly allowed worse coming from her, his housekeeper’s old age isn’t kind to what has possibly been a keen eye a handful of decades earlier. Mary used to be rather perceptive and quick-witted. 

Meaning the bluntness of the issue has a great likeliness to become a problem.

Hannibal doesn’t enjoy the prospect of it.

“Timothy.” He greets the young man once the very same enters his office—he’s certain Tim has never been requested in his home as much as he certainly is, as of late. Trips to this or that part of town, Hannibal’s latest manuscript in hand, now has added to the now weekly handling of correspondence from and over to Guernsey. The doctor extends his hand, and suddenly the boy’s face brightens up, recognizing the envelope and the ritual at once. “Take it to the post office, will you not? It’s of—”

“—highest priority,” Timothy supplies, full of a brand of mirth Hannibal does not initially understand. Subsequently, however, the hireling has the grace to look mortified for the audacity. “Terribly sorry, Dr. Lecter, sir; I shall do just that.”

And only because he cannot possibly afford to search for people deliberately blind as they are, at this time, is that Hannibal ensures the fruit of his home staff’s half-hearted provocations is taken elsewhere. Only to be proven that their amusement has been rooted in the most honest ground, however, as the stage he sets up is rather appropriate to his state of mind. 

The following morning, all papers feature the Ripper and his two guests at paradise: a lanky young man with ashen hair, a woman taken by age and avarice, and an unvarnished reproduction of a boat adrift, searching endlessly for a lighthouse in the absolute darkness.

Of the pair, the doctor takes the tongues and nothing else. A solitary consummation for his troubles.

(Hannibal commits to a third claim purely to feed the media’s frenzy, setting the carcass of the older man among the trellises on the ground that make up the structure of an imagined lighthouse. A sounder of three cannot be made with only two, after all.)

Conversely, Frederick Chilton looks undoubtedly less tranquil than Hannibal himself, though he wouldn’t go as far as saying he’s not tormented by the thought of Will Graham—agitated, rather, or perhaps increasingly intrigued would be a more apt description. His colleague shoves the morning paper on his desk, and Hannibal feels like Frederick’s inordinate stupidity will provide some further amusement, as it were.

“And good morning to you, as well, Dr. Chilton.”

“People have been speculating this was of conscious nature, _Dr. Lecter_.” The man’s stance is visibly weighed down by a blanket of anxiety, clouding the already largely impaired judgment in his eyes. Frederick approaches the window bearing only hesitancy, brushing the curtains aside with shaking hands to risk a peek outside, as if he’s more than certain someone is watching him close enough to be conspicuous at first glance. He first sports a full-bodied shiver and at past turns back to the host sitting behind the grand mahogany desk, his countenance betraying the absolute terror being groomed within. “Surely you must realize—this is _not. The. Time!_ ”

“As a matter of fact—” Hannibal points in the direction of the ostentatious grandfather clock at the corner, pendulum glazing left and right with grave pulses of sound, and the glass embroiders the number nine in proud resonances—“it is precisely the time. Would you care for tea?”

“The Ripper _deliberately_ acted in tandem with your article—one they’d arranged to a day nothing ever happens! No-one kills on Tuesdays!”

 _Is that your primary concern?_ He’s very tempted to ask, but also feels sufficiently acquainted with the human mind to recognize deflection and just plain idiocy when he sees it. The smile that surfaces is private and rather untimely, but his company is much too preoccupied to notice.

“The workings of society’s depravity is far beyond our grasp or strategic planning, I’m afraid.” He nods to Mary, who had accompanied Dr. Chilton to his study and had been waiting at the door; she mimics his gesture in understanding and leaves towards the kitchen. Hannibal picks up the newspaper, raising a skeptical brow at the sensationalist and entirely vulgar headline that might as well be written in red ink. “The news compendium is published alongside the cultural section. And although for reasons I fail to understand, as it stands, it certainly works in our favor; the sales must have been far superior to what any of us could’ve initially estimated.”

His colleague doesn’t seem satisfied in the slightest, but then again, he rarely ever does. 

Apparently, the suspicion arose from an article Dr. Chilton had written himself, just a week prior, full of boasting statements that greatly shone an untoward light over Hannibal’s writing and psychiatric practice, although he did not venture to name names. _The Moratorium_ , Hannibal’s most recent literary piece about a highly intellectual murderer and serial collector—a detail that is rather ironic in its entirety, excepting the horrid habit of keeping any sort of mementos to himself—became evidence enough of his vulnerability overnight. And suddenly it was perfectly feasible that the Chesapeake Ripper would wish to steal his thunder since, to some, the posing of the corpses on a stranded canoe could very well be related to his perusing tickets for all the impromptu trips overseas, as well as a homage to a memorable scene on his own particular piece of fiction. They believed it was meant as a warning.

(Hannibal keeps himself from rolling his eyes at Frederick, but only just.)

Bedelia does not comment on it. Jack expresses his concern via a strongly-worded letter sent to his office. 

Instead of promptly appeasing his editor’s fraying nerves, however, Hannibal basks in the second envelope from the pile. One that smells faintly of the sea—and dirt, and rain, and something rather intricate that feels entirely human, which can only make him hope.

(In the privacy of his study, Hannibal presses the letter closer to his face, inhaling until the scent is ingrained in his memory.)

> **Postmarked:**  
>  December 12, 1945  
> St. Peter Port, Guernsey
> 
> _Dr. Lecter,_
> 
> _‘Mr. Graham’ was my father. Call me Will._
> 
> _I’ve read your letters to the others—Ms. Beverly Katz, who works as an apothecary in town, was particularly aggravated at the notion of my offending you for the sake of discretion. I suppose our previous predicament caused us to instinctively err on the side of caution at any given situation, as I’m certain you can understand. I assure you there’s not much to tell, seeing as anything of interest rarely ever happens here. (In all honesty, you might as well be the most peculiar benign event to befall us in a long time.) The reason for my secrecy regarding the Society is due to implications on how it came to be: through a lie in its strictest form, notwithstanding the general lack of appeal that such a thing had so many months back._
> 
> _Ms. Alana Bloom, Ms. Verger’s companion and one of the few midwives operating in the whole island, was rather vehement on truthfulness this time around, although I do recall her policy being rather contrary to that when our correspondence first started. Also ironic is to have myself writing these messages, as opposed to—anyone else, really. I reckon the distance makes it easier. I wonder if, as a doctor, you see some sort of reasoning in all of this?_
> 
> _I see little appeal in the workings of my own mind, though your own interest makes me believe you might be_ that _kind of doctor. And in regards to our joined effort in Abigail’s education...we do what we can, is all._
> 
> _The Society was formed a little over a year ago, by the initiative of one Mr. Hobbs, though under circumstances less noble than you must’ve imagined. Curfew was strict in Guernsey at the time, and for something I would now call a caprice, we were cornered on the way home by soldiers and aggressively questioned our motive to be out so late. Very little was allowed when it came to anything remotely social and extracurricular, or anything that was not physical labor for the sake of their own cause, and I suppose a book club had seemed like a good idea then. And through a drunken delirium of our good friend Mr. Brian Zeller—which coincidentally concludes the list of members to our gatherings—the Society acquired the most curious name._
> 
> _Under military surveillance, naturally, to make sure we weren’t speaking of anything so subversive as what we now sometimes divert to, we began our encounters twice a week at Mr. Price’s residence. We didn’t have enough books at our disposal to justify literary arrangements of such kind, and Beverley, Zeller, and I decided to scout the ruins left of the old library. Surprisingly, we were able to retrieve eight books, yours among them, all with varying degrees of seemingly reversible damage._
> 
> _Needless to say, I did not take the suspiciously intact_ The Picture of Dorian Gray _to our reading sessions. Not at first, at least. But once the occupation was called off and Ms. Verger insisted, as I said, it did not take long for me to give in. I felt strangely proprietary of the book, but Ms. Lecter’s dedication to you at the beginning made me see it as a story worth telling. So it was. As for what happened after that, you very well know, I gather._
> 
> _You said you write. Have you ever published anything? Any medical papers I should worry about?_
> 
> _Thank you for the anthology you’ve sent us; the author has gained a deeper meaning to us all, and it’s always interesting to get to know the mind that lies behind the story. Mr. Price has already claimed reign over it and the others are happy to indulge in his narrations every Thursday afternoon. However, please don’t send any other books. I feel our debt to you is substantial as it is, and I fear there are little means to repay you for your time and courteousness to us._
> 
> _Alas, for the drawing, Abigail said: You’re welcome._
> 
> _Best regards,_

_Will Graham._

Ah.

The pieces fall into place at last.

Though the name remains a mystery, the Society’s origin falls into a territory of the misdeed; Hannibal’s instinctive view of Will Graham’s hesitancy is finally proven correct, and at once their long-distance relationship becomes one of imbalance. The island’s resident being so talkative once pushed to deliver an explanation could be easily attributed to being informational, or even defensive, and immediately Hannibal files this away for future examination: a considerable earning to feel helpful towards others, unknown to him as they may be.

How fascinating he is.

Against Will’s expectations and the doctor’s own good judgment, Hannibal sends yet two other books. One of his own, _The Scorpion Grass_ , to make good on the man’s sudden curiosity over his secondary profession, and Robert Louis Stevenson’s _Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. It seems as good a selection as any, seeing the size of them might placate Will’s distaste over going unheard, as well as considering the duality this strange man wears in every word, like a veil made out of thin smoke.

> December 16, 1945  
> London, England
> 
> _Dear Will,_
> 
> _I now fully understand the reasoning for your restraint and commend you for such calculated care. Through additions and amends as it might have been, the family is still your own, and the sentiment is rather humbling in its essence._
> 
> _The mind is a wonderful, terrible thing. Yours, I gather, shares a congruent path to greatness._
> 
> _You’ll find that our mind possesses a rather odd agenda, that we most certainly know nothing about; stranger yet than our bodies, that fall ill over the smallest changes in the wind. Have you heard of the Freudian Slip? An unintentional misstep that reveals subconscious desires—perhaps your distaste over these exchanges is a quite superficial one, though your crudeness suggests I shouldn’t be one to pry. I do say, however, that it is rather easier to accept one’s thoughts once you detach yourself from the subject, be it physically or emotionally._
> 
> _You went through great risks to acquire the books, and the product of your perilous roving rewards you handsomely, as it usually does._
> 
> _All mentioned residents of Guernsey seem to be of the taciturn sort, but if they do share a few similarities with yourself, Will, such fact will not impair their charm, nor will it dictate the level of their passion. I am very pleased to know any misconceptions they might have of the world have not kept them from the more somber universe of storytelling. Do feel free to include in your future letters any requests or inquiries, and you have my word every title will reach you shortly._
> 
> _I have written, as a matter of fact, a good many things—although few of them are for the public eye. Not for the fear of scrutiny, I say, but most are rather intimate musings, and I have chosen to not part with them. You must allow a man to keep some of his mystery, after all._
> 
> _Although certainly a luxury, please allow ourselves the pleasure of addressing one another less formally. It’s been a long time since I last fully devoted myself to the title of doctor, and it would delight me to partake in casualness with you._
> 
> _Yours truly,_
> 
> _Hannibal Lecter_

The wait for a response is positively disheartening, though Hannibal remains confident his efforts will come to fruition soon enough. There’s only so much influence one can cast from such a distance, and over so divided a time range. Being denied this new fixation turns Hannibal slightly sour, however. The interest in his own society diminishes at a staggering speed, his appetite becomes unkind, and his behavior turns most temperamental. And the way people seem to inherently tie these events with Bedelia’s sudden inclination to controlled emotional outbursts makes Hannibal feel more indisposed than it is of his nature.

But he recalls ‘ _our debt to you’_ and ‘ _a string that would pull us to it,’_ ‘ _in the interest of honesty, I had no expectations’_ and ‘ _call me Will,’_ and suddenly, whatever _something_ that began nesting at the bottom of his stomach became _little_ , indeed, and what remained took proportions unforeseen, yet entirely agreeable.

So, in the end, Hannibal cannot say for sure what propelled him into this decision. Whether it’s instinct, a speculative gaze, or merely an itch he’s suddenly too stagnant to resist—and as it stands, the source would be of no consequence. Altruism, as repentance, has never served him well.

“Absolutely not.”

Naturally, Jack Crawford does not share his mindset.

“I have reason to believe,” Hannibal supplies, composed yet vaguely austere, “that it will be a commendable subject for fiction, at this time. Additionally, I have secured a reliable source.” Curiously, he’s under the distinct impression that Jack has the impossible, maddening, overwhelming urge to pace around the study, though his editor remains firmly rooted right where he is, the fidgeting of his limbs the only obvious undermining factor to the placid exterior. The doctor raises a pale eyebrow, quizzical. “It was my understanding that editors dreaded the lack of inspiration in their clients? I’m only guaranteeing the thunder doesn’t die down.”

“In _Guernsey_.”

Hannibal grants them a moment of silence for the ludicrousness to sink in, recalling Will Graham’s own initial reluctance to share even the smallest things of himself and his peers. For the briefest moment, he wonders if the stranger will even be capable of appreciating the gesture—an impromptu visit to the end of the world, almost, though the distance cannot be more than 250 miles. 

The odds are still less than ideal.

“What of the island do you fear so ardently, Jack?”

“Christ, where should I start?”

Hannibal glances at him conspiratorially. “From the beginning, I reckon.”

It’s not that Crawford is an unwaveringly righteous character, per se, but his attempts are most sincere, which certainly contribute to the offhand way he often sounds. Epic heroes trail down that particular road more often than not for that exact same reason, ending much the same way: bloody, and alone. 

In other circumstances, Hannibal would’ve enjoyed antagonizing Jack for the simplistic pleasure of watching him spiral into madness sewn to virtue, but of course, that’s never priority; only when circumstances oblige.

Often have they.

“I can’t allow you, in good conscience, to go to a place like that.”

“Well then, in case it exempts your consciousness from responsibility,” he begins, punctuating his words carefully. It’s almost appalling how he undertakes such self-importance in Hannibal’s presence, though not unbearably so. “You ought to know I already procured the tickets for my travel—as you to greenlight the project was only a formality. If you don’t perceive my writing of Guernsey as wise, then I’ll only be on vacation. You’ll find the remaining pieces of my contribution to the London paper at your desk by the end of the day.”

His associate’s countenance grows even more severe. Despite being obstinate on refusing to drop the topic, Hannibal does understand the weight of what lies beneath Jack’s immediate aversion, besides the agreeable caution on a surface level. The doctor is being watched closely, and a misstep in the shape of a careless judgment could be fatal to his career; the war might be over, but there’s still too much to uncover, to scrape the old and make new. 

He has no intention to abandon the title of his state in Lithuania, but many obligations come with it. Some that he’s willing to take on; others, not so much. Appearances, most of all.

(As if he isn’t already well-versed in that.)

“Then ultimately, it’s a detour meant for pleasure.”

Jack _smells_ aggravated. Almost peeved, he’d say. And to claim Hannibal doesn’t take any enjoyment from that would be dishonest at best, even as he goes through the trouble of appearing sufficiently chastised. “You could certainly say that.”

The trip he’s booked isn’t for over a week, and he tells Crawford as much. It nearly seems to appease him, as if he’s grateful there will be some time to change Hannibal’s mind. 

The doctor spends a good portion of his time with his clients. Bedelia graces him with her agreeable company for lunch, once.

Mostly, he expects a letter.

It arrives a day before he’s due to departure, the suitcases are already neatly arranged in a corner of his bedroom. 

The manor’s servants already seem more than used to the gravitational shift the messages cause him, now fully aware of the space he’s due in these particular moments, for they seem suspiciously preoccupied as soon as the envelope falls onto his hands. 

Within a few minutes, he can smell the first hints of the floral, sweet aroma of his preferred brand of tea, and a smile begins tugging at the corners of his mouth. Mary must _really_ think him a romantic; and if he did nothing to deny it before, he certainly won’t do it now.

(Truly—a lasting correspondence with a stranger, the near abandonment of whatever remains of his practice, a spontaneous trip made on little ground other than just his curiosity and a gut feeling. 

If anything, he’s _endorsing_ it.)

> **Postmarked:**  
>  December 19, 1945  
> St. Peter Port, Guernsey
> 
> _Dr. Lecter,_
> 
> _One of the last books you’ve sent us caught our undivided attention: your name had been engraved below the title, all gravitas, and fine lettering. And it would’ve been only an interesting surprise, if Mr. Price, just as I got to our correspondence yet again, hadn’t mentioned your name in passing to his brother over the phone—currently residing in Durham, that younger Price, though your fame has spread far enough that even his wife, a woman I’m told is most respectable, has apparently read some of your work during her travels to America._
> 
> _When taking the Society’s reunions in consideration, it hits terribly close to home, and it amazes me you were able to keep such a secret; and it’s with no judgment I say it, for we have done much the same and hid far more dangerous things from you at the time our exchange began._
> 
> _I understand I may have spoken to you with sizable disrespect on multiple occasions, but I still ask that (in case it does not prove a nuisance) you be so kind as to send us yet another work of yours. We have no reason to doubt your word, much less your character, thus my reasoning behind it is of mere curiosity. What other stories have you brought to this world, how many of the characters so powerfully written are in fact blurred versions of your own image, I wonder?_
> 
> _Alas, I could not be so bold to address you by your given name. Your social standing is much different from my own, and I would not dream to place us in the same stand. Please forgive my refusal, as I mean no offense. Our closeness has become the quickest, oddest, smoothest, most sudden I’ve ever experienced, seeing as we’ve barely actually spoken to each other—comparatively. But it is honest, I believe, and intriguing in a way I seldom wish anyone else to replicate._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Will Graham_

The immediate urge to write him back is sizable, but not enough to force Hannibal into the study when he evidently should be resting. There will be time to be conversational once they’re in the same room, finally making acquaintances. The doctor doesn’t blame the Literary Society for their initial alarm, but it certainly proves to be enough fuel to the fire. 

In the long run, it promises to be sufficient payment for all difficulties Hannibal has faced whilst procuring transportation—even as train rides were readily available all the way to the coast, there weren’t any means of transport he found particularly adequate to cross the English Channel through the air. Not to a place like Guernsey, anyway, and certainly not as the island still faces the consequences of a regimen. 

But fortunately, Hannibal is able to acquire accommodations on a cruise that, against all odds, had arranged to refill its fuel supply at St. Peter Port’s harbor—certainly the trip will take much longer than it would by plane, but even Hannibal’s contacts in the army were understandably rendered powerless by all the commotion. 

He’s only assuaged by the fact the journey isn’t likely to exceed the foreseen six hours at sea, although there isn’t much to do to occupy his time either way. 

Hannibal, for once, has made sure to travel relatively light.

The reasoning behind it was rather simple: unless he intends on purchasing an actual house in Guernsey, there’s no feasible reason to take inordinate amounts of luggage in tow. He’ll rent a room for a couple of days, access whatever wild yet extraordinary flower has been growing at the island tides, perhaps tweak his strings around its stalk, and return to his manor in London.

Whether the bloom will be worth the effort or not, only time will tell.

* * *

The meals served at the dining car on the train are atrocious.

What poses as fine-dining at the cruise’s restaurant isn’t much better, but at least it doesn’t make Hannibal want to flee back to culinary civilization. He figures the appetizers in the form of fresh figs beautifully wrapped in _prosciutto di Parma_ can’t do him any wrong, especially when accompanied by the most agreeable wine available on board. An hour at sea provides him a sizable headache, yet another handful of self-important acquaintances that would look fantastic framed by white porcelain (preferably served with a savory-sweet salad, supple pears, Spanish manchego, and garnished with pomegranate seeds), and a rather unnecessary telegram sent by Bedelia’s personal assistant.

Was she anyone else, her indiscretion would grant a swift, unique, and perhaps intimate encounter with his linoleum knife. As it is, Hannibal remains uncertain as to how much of her quaking gibe he’s willing to overlook. 

Needless to say, he makes no plans to send for her, much less to attend their conjoined society’s expectations of taking her hand anytime soon.

Once on land, Hannibal is seized by the smell of salt, coal, and blood. 

His head is filled with Will Graham.

Conversely, a man stands on the port, perfectly still even as others pay little attention to the unloading boats. Worn-down clothes, a dusty hat diligently placed against his sternum, and a mop of hair in disarray beyond repair. He’s holding a small sign, crude lettering denoting the doctor’s surname crassly, though there’s little to be done about it. Hannibal walks up to him, sparing not a word.

The man nods, guiding him to an old Berlin carriage off to a side road, carrying his luggage with great amounts of difficulty. He opens the rickety door with a weaving chest and politeness that would be comical if not entirely depressing. Also, the man could certainly use more baths than he’s been recently having, but it’s nothing that Hannibal cannot handle in small doses. He gets inside.

“To the local apothecary, Mr. Truppel.”

There’s only a moment of hesitation before the horses are made to move. It doesn’t take long to arrive at their destination either, which comes as no surprise: the island is diminutive when compared to the continent; the number of shops is small, and the ones still working smaller still. 

Ms. Katz’s apothecary is all somber walls and freshly-washed display windows. The driver is made to wait by the carriage as Hannibal steps inside, presence denounced by a bell hanging atop the door. 

He’s met by a series of shelves, some filled with jars of different types of leaves, flowers, roots and plants’ crumbled pieces, others with liquids and oils of various kinds—some that smell heavenly, others not so much, many of which are rather aggressive to Hannibal’s sensitive nose—and yet a few teeming with items he fails to recognize at all. Some of the glass jars are colored, greens, and blues and pinks, but none of them have any sort of indication of what they are or what they could possibly be used for. Still, the doctor suspects the owner of the shop to be acutely aware of the location and purpose of every single item at her disposal. 

It is a rather interesting sight to behold, and for a moment he’s rather enraptured by its kaleidoscopic nature.

“Hey, stranger,” there’s a woman at the counter; raven hair and slim figure, somewhat similar to what he had in mind. She doesn’t look up to greet him, hands preoccupied with wrapping some sort of clean-smelling concoction, presumably to deliver it later. “What can I get you for?” 

“I’m afraid you were the closest I had to an address for Will Graham.”

It is not that he feels threatened by her, considering Hannibal is never put under such an undignified state, but he acknowledges the sharpness of her gaze. This woman is sure to be an intelligent creature, he realizes, not so prone to his customary illusionism. Hannibal’s care around her must be more delicate, more measured.

Her aforementioned task is promptly forgotten as she sizes him up, and instantaneously the doctor is sure to have her attention. “Do I know you?”

“In a way,” he provides. Only then is that he strides elegantly to where she stands, raising his hand over the counter to greet her with what he is certain to be an amiable expression. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter.”

Ms. Katz’s eyes go wide, palm reflexively shooting up to shake his. “Oh, oh my God,” she says, and suddenly she’s smiling and snickering and letting go of his hand as if threatened with something ridiculous as being tickled to death. Her expression is the perfect picture of the cat who’s got the cream, and he could easily make a jest out of it. Obviously, he doesn’t. “He’s going to freak the hell out.”

 _He_ , meaning Will Graham, in all likeliness. Hannibal raises a pale eyebrow. 

“I should hope not.”

“Believe me—” Ms. Katz amends, mid-guffaw as she slides on her overcoat and grabs the keys from a drawer under the counter—“you do.”

She politely ushers him out and wordlessly locks up, exempting a bark of laughter or two, and Hannibal offers to take them both by carriage. She seems slightly hesitant at that—not necessarily in recognition of his fundamentally dubious nature, as someone she doesn’t precisely know, but merely as if she could not be bothered. 

How scandalous he must look, surely, trying to convince her to be in his society unattained. As they get closer to the carriage, Mr. Truppel promptly takes out his hat in respect to her presence. 

Hannibal is almost expecting a quip about accepting things from strangers.

“It’s within walking distance,” she attempts.

“As most things are,” he simply says, though not unkindly. Extending his hand still, he insists: “Allow me.”

Beverly Katz offers no resistance then, giving the driver all necessary directions; although he seems rather convinced simply by ‘please, to the fisherman’s house.’ Hannibal doesn’t dare utter any questions about the region’s customs. The woman is oddly nonchalant across him, and Hannibal does his best not to court any frivolous emotions such as _expectation_.

“May I ask why Mr. Graham will be troubled by my visit?”

“You may not—actually, you’ll see it in a bit. It will be more fun that way.”

“I see you’re rather entertained by the notion.”

“You have no idea,” she says, and then adds in an obvious afterthought: “Beverly Katz, by the way.”

Hannibal already knew that but pairs her solemn nod with newfound amiability. “A pleasure.”

He also asks her where it would be more appropriate to rent a decent room for a couple of days, although he puts it in nicer terms. She mentions a few names, but nothing too concrete. The most definitive thing that comes out of her mouth is “Anything but that Lounds’ place.”

Twenty minutes could not have passed in her solitary orbit, but Ms. Katz is instantaneously a very interesting character. Instead of escorting him inside at their arrival, she simply glances at the doctor conspiratorially, insisting she’ll instead aide Mr. Truppel in locating a suitable place for the carriage. Alas, in the meantime, Hannibal should, of course, just make himself at home. “Well, the house isn’t mine, but I’m certain Will would insist that you be comfortable. In his own odd way.”

It is, to put it bluntly, a very humble residence.

The house is enough that three or four occupants could live comfortably in it; two-stories, though the structure is not particularly handsome. Hannibal has seen far better, but he also has seen and lived in fairly worse. There’s a shack at the back, precisely from where the odor of coastal wildlife comes from, that occupies a good portion of the perimeter, but the terrain isn’t fenced. A few dogs walk by and a pair slides in closer, curious snouts catching the smell of white wine, fresh fruit, and likely all the meals Hannibal had earlier in his travel; perhaps some things reminiscent of Ms. Katz’s shop, as well.

A small mutt with shaggy fur and round eyes snares pointedly at him, and although crude, the doctor cannot avoid the notion that that dog serves as the protector archetype out of the group—which he now sees a grand total of seven. The animal must perceive Hannibal as a predator, and nothing good ever came from something dangerous exploring new territory. He smiles down at the dog, enjoying the prospects of the proverbial hunt. “Good evening,” he says.

Its ears go down and the animal makes a wounded sound, but it does not move, nor does it answer his greeting. Hannibal looks up, perfectly aware of the approaching stranger, if only by the smell; the lithe man carries with him a strong scent of gutted fish, though he’s spared bigger injustice by the coldness lingering in the air. 

Still, he recognizes the nuances of the man’s smell: tinges of sweat and sea salt and hay and motor oil bleeding from the letters he’s sent, and the connection is made before the Doctor is able to clearly make sense of the sharp features under the dim twilight. The stranger takes root a few feet away from Hannibal, making his mouth water despite himself.

What a beautiful bloom Will Graham’s turned out to be.

“Can I help you?”

The words have heat to it, especially as he holds a firm grip around a dusty Mauser rifle; alas, the mutt has taken his master’s side. Hannibal breathes in the bite of apprehension, from owner and animal alike. 

A creature peers from beneath the veil, however, sharp claws and sharper eyes, a calculatedness and thrill just barely contained, and it awakens further in the Doctor something far worse than expectation: morbid, raw, wicked _curiosity_. How far would this animal go if ever properly _provoked_? And it is only in the face of it that Hannibal realizes he hasn’t planned anything particularly grand to say, has not prepared any fitting offerings to be bestowed right upon arrival, has not established any sort of physical boundaries between them—understandably so, seeing as their exchanges were exclusive of the written kind.

But he needn’t a rehearsed speech. The Doctor exercises only honesty.

“I dare say,” he begins, and it is clear that his rather prominent, distinctly non-British accent surprises Will; a flash crosses his eyes, filling them up with a mist of shock and, perhaps, given the circumstances, a shadow of downright revulsion. “I most certainly have not been the inspiration for any characters of mine, but you are quite a source of enlightenment yourself, William.”

A solemn moment hangs between them; a breath stolen. The man purses his lips, tilting his head down in a way that betrays only disbelief, if not a tinge of something unimaginably _tender_. “Dr. Lecter?”

“Not a chance in persuading you to forego formalities, I see.”

Will swallows around nothing, making Hannibal enthralled by a wicked, delectable sort of fantasy where the curtain is pushed back, fangs and claws and darkness exposed, and they would delight in pulling each other apart in the most intimate and visceral of ways. 

Even if only at first glance, Will certainly has the potential for it.

Oh, and how he _urges_ to. This close, he can detect one too many things he wasn’t able to when back in London. Will refuses to meet his eyes, and yet has demonstrated numerous times before an ability to see beyond a mediocre gaze—further than that, in fact. Perhaps _see_ him, as Hannibal has privately wished to be seen just as everyone does; the only thing that denotes him as your average person despite his distaste for the mere notion of it. What would it take, he muses, for this underlining inclination to become a compulsion, a feverish desire?

He can smell it in the air, not unlike less intellectual animals do. The urge to break free of the chains that bound him to normalcy, to consume, and be consumed in turn. And at once Hannibal acknowledges that the creature before him has already begun its visceral transformation, the previous skin shed and hidden behind the veil alongside him.

All Hannibal has to do is watch.


End file.
